


Entropy

by Plouton



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9228986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plouton/pseuds/Plouton
Summary: The inexorable tendency of the universe and any isolated system in it, to slide toward a state of increasing disorder…Or, in which a clueless girl makes everything worse with the assistance of an international ninja terrorist.





	1. The Big Bang

“Shit!” I swear, squinting through the water covered windshield and grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles turning white in stark contrast to the black leather. The wheel jerks under my hands and the car skids again before the wheels regain traction and I straighten the Jeep.

The headlights pierce through the darkness and my windshield wipers battle furiously against the downpour. I slow to a halt at the T-intersection, waiting for the red light to turn green.

Then the car rams into me.

My head collides with the steering wheel and I'm dead before my car is stopped by the tree on the opposite side of the road.

As a medical student I thought I understood death fairly well. The National Conference of Commissioners on Uniform State Laws defined death under the Uniform Determination of Death Act. It states that: “An individual who has sustained either (1) irreversible cessation of circulatory and respiratory functions, or (2) irreversible cessation of all functions of the entire brain, including the brainstem is dead.” In the absence of life sustaining functions, you are dead. And there was nothing more to it.

Professor Fredrickson used to say that death was the point when the human body could no longer hold the weight of the soul. And when the weight of this soul became too grand for the constraints of mortality, it would ascend to a better place.

I thought that was bullshit.

Dying was the end. Nothing happened after you were dead. You just are, and then one day, you aren’t. And there was a very comforting finality in that. A freeing quality, perhaps.  
So when I blinked my eyes open, vision cloudy, ears hypersensitive, and a scream tearing itself from my throat, I wasn't quite sure what to think.

A wail rips itself from my vocal chords and tears drip from my eyes. Despite my best attempts the emotional strain pulls me under and I feel like I'm drowning on dry land.

How could this happen?!

I died.

I felt my brain leak out of my head and I was dead.

But here I am.

Very much not dead because I am breathing and I can feel my heart beating and there is something else that I can't quite distinguish but I know (intuitively, the same way you know not to breath water and the same way you know you should use your hands to break a fall) it means I'm alive.

And it's wrong because I should be dead, dead, DEAD!

“Shhhh. Shhhh.” A soft voice croons in my ear and mutters something else that I can't understand. though part of my brain (the part not currently screaming, as if that'll do anything) registered the language as Japanese (though not quite, I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s just not quite).

A soothing feeling washes over me and despite the confusion and the pain that's coursing through my body as thickly as blood, I can feel myself succumbing to it. My wails taper off into sobs, and my body (it's so small, it shouldn’t be this small) shudders, and suddenly I feel exhausted. Unconsciousness claims me, pulling me into its dark clutches.

.

I did not pass through the five stages of grief. The emotions didn’t roll through me the way I expected, in a straight, linear pattern.

The depression hit me first. And it hit me hard.

I would never see my family again. My parents, who gave me so much, did so much, would never see me reach my dream of being a surgeon.

I would never get to see them grow old and retire. Happy in knowing they accomplished so much in their lifetime.

I would never see my sister graduate high school, nor my brother graduate college.

I would never see them reach their dreams.

My future was taken from me, stolen from me, by some stupid, reckless driver. By some stupid man, who killed me because he thought he could drive with alcohol in his brain and slippery tarmac under his wheels. Moron! Idiot! Shithead!

And there is the anger.

White hot anger. It sets in, hot and fast. It's bone deep and it's running through my body like fire and it's ruining me. It's destroying everything in its wake, swallowing confusion and grief and desperation like gasoline, and if it doesn't go away I’m going to burn.

But as much as I want (and I want it so bad. So, so bad. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life -though I suppose death does that; it makes people selfish and cruel and twisted-) to stay angry, and it would be so easy, I know that I can’t.

But there has to be something I can do. Some way to fix all of this. Maybe it’s just a dream. I’m in a coma. I made it to the hospital in time and I’m in a coma. That’s all there is too it. And if I just wake up. If I wake up, wake up, wake up! It’ll be alright if I just wake up!

But I can’t.

I can’t wake up.

It’s not a dream.

And there is nothing, nothing, I can do about it.

.

“Na-tsu-ki-chan” My caretaker chants my name and bounces me on her knee. I giggle and reach for her vivid blue hair with my chubby fingers. Moving is hard. My body doesn’t want to cooperate and my face twists into smiles without my consent. I cry all the time. When I’m tired, hungry, bored, lonely, happy, sad, attention-deprived, smelly. My emotional expression is at the mercy of this small body until I can control it better. But for right now, the small movement to tug at the electric strands of my caretakers’ hair was exhausting. My hand-eye coordination is shot, for one. My muscle control is shot, for two. And any semblance of strength is shot, for three. Basically, I’m an uncontrollable giggling, crying, and shitting nugget baby.

“Sore wa chūshoku no jikandesu, Natsuki-chan.” The blue haired woman speaks cheerfully and repositions me in her lap. Chūshoku, lunch. I grasp the bottle, content to simply hold the handles and let my caretaker support the weights.

“Who are you?” I choke.

Coughing and sputtering I hack up the milk in my lungs. I glance around the room in confusion. What the hell? Other than the caretaker and myself the room is empty. So who just spoke? And how do they know English? 

“English? What the hell is English?” The voice sounded again. A panicked cry itches in my throat and tears well up in my eyes.

“Natsuki-chan? Daijōbudesu ka?” My caretaker scrutinizes me and I can spot the concern in her gaze.

What the hell is going on? Where is that voice coming from?

“I should be asking you that. How’d you get in here?” The voice is muffled, as if speaking through a door, though I can tell it’s a boy’s voice.

Yamanaka. You’re reading my mind!

“No, I’m not reading your mind! I’m in here too! I can hear you think!”

Yeah! I know you’re in my head. Get out!

“No! You get out!”

Excuse you? This is my body! I’m supposed to be here!

“You’re the one in my body, damn it! Get out!”

My god, your childish! Go back to your own body, Yamanaka!

“I’m not a fucking Yamanaka! You’re the Yamanaka! And you’re the one invading my body. Get out!”

Well, fuck you too, shit head! I’m not a Yamanaka, I’m Natsuki! I was born here, so clearly you’re the invader! This is my body!

The voice falls silent.

Minutes tick by slowly, and I calm down. Maybe I made up the whole conversation. My caretaker is still looking at me in concern, but my baby reflexes had since taken over in my mental absentness and was happily enjoying lunch. Maybe my reincarnated mind is so deprived of interaction that I hallucinated the whole thing.

“Your reincarnated mind?”  The voice asks, no longer shouting. I jerk in surprise. “You’re a reincarnation.”

It wasn’t a question, but I answer anyways “Yes.” A pause. “Are… Are yo-”

“Yes.” The voice falls silent again.

A second reincarnation? A second soul? In this body? Wh-, ho-, what? I’ve never heard of this happening before. Not that I know a lot about reincarnation. But. I mean? Sometimes there are multiple souls in a body in… like… Kingdom Hearts? But that is more a heart than a soul, right? What about when a twin eats another in the womb? Oh my god, what if we are twins and I ate him in the womb and now he has half my brain! No. Shut up, Natsuki, that just sounds ridiculous. What about… Well… It’s a stretch but when ninja seal tailed beasts into a jinchuriki, that’s sort of like putting two souls in one body? Right? But that’s not how reality works.

You know what? This might be one of those mysteries that just comes along with reincarnation. I don’t know, maybe all reincarnations require two souls. It’s not exactly something I can google.  But still. Two souls in one body is a lot to take in. And how come I didn’t know he was here until just now. Who was he.

“Think more quietly. You’re annoying.” My mental jaw drops at the sound (is it really a sound? Or is it a thought?)

“Think more quietly? Well, fuck you buddy! Stop reading my thoughts!” I shout in retaliation.

“I’m not. You’re projecting them, idiot!”

Prick. Of all the people to get stuck with.

“You’re not exactly my first choice either.” An impression of intense irritation runs through me, and I have the strangest feeling he’s glaring at me. Which is weird because I have no clue what his face looks like.

I ignore him for the rest of the day, frustrated and confused. The boy seems to adopt the same mentality and doesn’t chastise me for thinking too loudly, though I’m sure my thoughts are reaching him loud and clear. Instead I nap and count the lines in the wooden roof.

244.

How did he know how to speak English if he’s never even heard of it before?

263.

Maybe it’s one of those weird things that comes with being reincarnated together?

289.

I could think I’m hearing English and he could think he’s speaking a completely different language, but mentally we translated it for the purpose of communicating with each other.

301.

What a mess this is. 

337.

How are we going to function together as a person if we can’t even get through one conversation without arguing?

373.

Wait. Can he even control this body?

400.

That would explain so much! All of those times the stupid nugget baby started crying! It was his doing!

413.

Man. What a crybaby. He’s going to need to stop that. I get in too many arguments to have to deal with him randomly bursting into tears.

445.

But he didn’t start crying earlier. And the nugget body hasn’t cried all day.

487.

So… maybe not? Maybe I’m the sole controller of this body.

511.

Man that sucks for him. I guess he’s been demoted to my conscious. Just there to scream things in my ear.

521.

577.

595.

604.

How many cracks are even in this roof?

662.

I wonder who he was.

“You are allowed to ask.” The voice spoke again for the first time in hours.

“Yeah, well… Maybe I don’t want to.” That was a bit childish.

“Liar. You were just thinking about it.” His irritation is rising again.

“Of course I was! Aren’t you curious too? It’s not every day you have to share a body with someone else.”

“You already told me who you are.”  

“What? No, I didn’t.”

“Yes you did. You said you are Natsuki.”

“That’s the name of this body. Of us… technically. It’s your name too.”

“Ha! How amusing. You think I would use such a name simply because of my position.” A haughty feeling accompanies his words.

“Oh, get over yourself, Natsuki,” I snap and roll my eyes.

My companion sighs. “Never mind this bodies name. I was simply trying to place us on better terms with each other. Evidently you are incorrigible and immature.”

I scowl internally. “You aren’t doing a great job of that by insulting me.”

He doesn’t respond.

Seconds turn into minutes and finally I release a sigh of my own. “You’re right. We’re stuck together, whether we like it or not. We should at least try to get along.” I imagine thrusting out a hand, as though for a handshake, “My name was Lucy Doe. I was an aspiring surgeon and was two and a half years through my medical degree when I died in a car crash. I like dogs, coffee, and debates. I don’t like winter or EDM. I don’t know how I got reincarnated, but I’m now Narukami Natsuki. I’m a couple of month’s old, though it’s hard to keep track, and I want to accomplish something worthwhile in my life. It’s nice to meet you.”

My companion remains quiet, and I wonder for a brief moment If he is going to ignore me, before I feel something, a hand, wrap around my own. Two fingers grip my index and middle fingers, and despite my surprise at the odd sensation and handshake, I tighten my grip to match his, and suddenly I am standing in a dark room, ankle deep in inky water, and returned to my original body. Across from me stands a man several inches taller than me. Despite the unnatural darkness of the room, I can see him clearly. Long messy black hair frames a pale face. His cheeks are sunken and purple bruises under his black eyes stand in stark contrast to his alabaster skin. He might have been handsome at one point in his life, but now he simply looks exhausted. His back is ramrod straight, but I can still see the fatigue pulling at him. It’s visible in the tightness around his eyes, the way it took just a little too long to drag his eyelids back open after every blink, the rigidity of his shoulders. I could feel his exhaustion. We lock gazes.

“My name is Uchiha Madara.” My eyebrows shoot up, and his eyes flickered. A barely perceptible flinch travels through him, and I might have missed it had he not been so exhausted. “I am… was-” he corrects “-a shinobi and co-founder of Konohagakure. My death is inconsequential to you, as are my likes and dislikes. During the course of my life, I did many bad things. My reincarnation is a second chance to achieve my dream of bringing peace to the world. I suppose that I too am Narukami Natsuki. Though I wish to continue using my own name within the confines of our mind. And for your information, we are 82 days old.”

Throughout his introduction I had grown progressively more incredulous. Did he really expect me to believe this? Believe that he’s some –

“I can still hear you thinking.” He interrupted, “Just say whatever it is you are thinking out loud.”

I frown slightly and pull my fingers out of his grasp. “Fine. Sit down.”

“What?”

“Sit. Down. Before you fall over.” Without waiting for his response I drop into a cross-legged position, splashing the inky black water onto my companions’ pants. The man glances down at me, his face impassive, before joining me, simultaneously pulling his hair into a self-holding bun to keep it out of the water. Without the thick curtain of hair, he looks smaller. “Where do I even start.” I rock back onto my palms.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Of course not.” I flick a hand dismissively. “I’d have to be an idiot to believe you.”

“I gain nothing by lying.” He response is level.

“Then why did you?” I hold a hand up, halting any protests that might accompany my words. 

“Look, not that it matters very much, you can go by any name you want, but did you really expect me to believe that you are a legendary shinobi that can breathe fire and walk on water.”

A small smirk pulls at the man’s lips. “But I can breathe fire and I can walk on water.”

I stare at him, unimpressed. “Sure,” my sarcasm is thick. “It doesn’t change that fact that you are claiming you are from a made up world, and –”

“Made up world?”

“Yes, made up. Imagined. Not real.”

“Why would you think that? Ninja have been around for decades,” confusion colored his tone.

He didn’t feel like he was lying. “Because Uchiha Madara is from a manga, a made up character from a made up world. Of course ninja don’t exist.” I furrow my brows. “Did you die high or something?”

“Die high? No. I was used as a vessel for a chakra goddess. I died from chakra exhaustion. And probably organ failure.” He placed a hand over his heart, and traced a spot lightly with his fingers, as though feeling for a hole. An unconscious action. “And I’m not lying.” His eyes narrow at me.

“Fine.” I rocked back on my hands again, skeptical, yet something is telling me he is being honest. He truly believed what he is saying. “Prove it.”

“What would you accept as proof?”

What could he do that would be completely unique to Uchiha Madara. Sharingan?

“Your eyes.” I shift my weigh to tap my cheek, right below my eye. “Every Uchiha’s Mangekyo Sharingan is unique right?”

“Yes.”

“Show me yours.” It comes out as a command, and in that instant I realize how dangerous a position I put myself in. He can do all sorts of things with the Sharingan. This can end so badly for me. 

I open my mouth to recall that poorly thought out idea, but then I see red.

I always imagined the Sharingan to be dull, the color of dried blood or decaying leaves. But these eyes are intensely, brilliantly vivid – the color of the sun right as begins to dip below the horizon. They glow in the dark space of our mind and the black patter of his eyes swirl lazily around his pupil. I lean closer, rolling onto my toes and steadying myself with one hand, mesmerized. 

His eyes are beautiful. 

I blink, and the red fades away, returning to coal black. 

“Believe me now?” The man asks, and smirks at my expression.

I must be quite the picture: eyes blown wide and jaw slack, flabbergasted. Pull yourself together!

“Take your time, the awestruck look on your face is quite fitting.” And there he goes reading my thoughts again.

“I-It’s not awe! I’m just surprised is all.” I jerk away from him and land in the puddle with a slash.

“Hn.” His smirk remains.

I pout slightly, “Fine. I believe you. It doesn’t make any sense. But I believe you.”

“Hmm. Good.”

“You’re a mass murderer.”

“… Technically.”

“I have many questions.”

“So do I.”

“Yeah?”

“Hm. You still haven’t explained what English is.”

.


	2. Planck Era (I)

I chew diligently on the largest wooden ring in a Tower of Hanoi puzzle, soothing my sore gums. It is a habit I picked up when my teeth started growing in, as the ring is the closest object to a teether I can find with my limited mobility. Masanori proves herself a particularly miserly matron by refusing to purchase proper teethers, and instead allows the children to chew on whatever items they find, and hope they learn not to bite a sharp kunai more than once. The scratches on several children’s faces make me think it isn’t the best method.

The rest of the tower puzzle lays half completed at my side, and my attention is pinned on the blue haired matron. “Anata wa kanari kashikoidesu, ne? Anata no nenrei no hotondo no kodomo wa kono pazuru o kaiketsu suru koto wa dekimasen.” She speaks quickly, and I struggle to separate the indistinct sounds into words. 

Since my first birthday, Masanori has started my early education and training. Presently, my education includes speaking and puzzles, and while the puzzles are quickly solved (probably too quickly for a child of my supposed age, but I’m so mind-numbingly bored and the puzzles are at least a brief reprieve), but the speaking is coming along more slowly. You would think that the native speaker in my head would help me out, but noooo, that’s too much effort for Madara, and I can only bother him for so long before he goes radio silent on me

Sure, I understand the basics. Yes, no, feed me, bye, put that down you little brat. Things like that. The problem is that whatever language Masanori speaks, it definitely isn’t Japanese like I expected. None of my previous knowledge of the language applies. While there are some words and honorifics I recognize, the vast majority of the vocabulary isn’t anything I’ve experienced before. I’m learning, sure. And faster than most children. But until it clicks, I’m left to stare at Masanori-san in confusion and occasionally coo at her. 

“Hey, Madara,” I mentally prod the older man, “Are you getting any of this? Can you translate?” I feel Madara’s attention slip to the forefront of our mind and ignore his grumble about my interruption of his meditation. Stuffy Uchiha, it’s not like anything in our mindscape is more interesting than what’s happening out here. 

“Translate?” He rumbles, though his voice is significantly higher pitched than it was when we first met, indicative of our mental forms de-aging. “And why would I do that?”

“Because she’s saying something and I want to know what it is.” I add as an afterthought, “Duh. Aren’t you supposed to be able to read my mind or something?” It’s not like I’m being particularly quiet about my thoughts. 

“I didn’t hear what she said. Couldn’t help you even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.” Madara excuses himself, and I can almost imagine the 

“Oh, come on. Please!” I whine, “If we don’t respond then she’ll put bugs in our bed again!” Take pity on me, because I for one, do not want bugs in my bed. So I’d rather not give her a reason. 

While my education revolved around my ability to solve puzzles and communicate effectively, my training is desensitization. Unlike the systematic desensitization I was familiar with, where an individual would be slowly exposed to a phobia – first the though, then a photo, then the thing – and conditioned to remain calm. This training is… shall we say traumatic. Traumatic desensitization. Trial by fire. Basically, I woke up to a crib full of maggots.

Writhing, slimy, maggots. Writhing, slimy, maggots that wormed their way over my body and slipped through the cracks in my fingers. My attempts to wriggle away only resulted in smearing their puss filled bodies into my sheets and skin. I can distinctly recall the sensation of revulsion that crawled its way up my throat at the sensation of hundreds of little bodies squirming their way across my skin and face. They tangled in my hair and slithered against my lips and eyelids and I feared that if I opened my mouth to scream they would climb down my throat and eat me from the inside out. Since then I had woken up every night to find myself sharing a bed with the maggots. Masanori-san’s methods are clearly effective though, for my original disgust has since given way to discomfort and irritation at my interrupted sleep. 

I’d imagine, though, that the transition from overwhelming horror to mild annoyance isn’t a common result amongst children. In fact, my disgust was considered out of place, because most children had yet to learn that maggots were something they should consider disgusting. Rather, the first night they woke up to a bed full of bugs, they would cry. And when they realized crying would get them nothing, they would go back to sleep. I on the other hand, lay awake all night in abject horror until my body eventually gave in to its exhaustion and pulled me under. 

“It is a common training practice, and one that you of all people benefit from. Maggots are a common illusion adopted by genjutsu users. It would be a shame if something as petty as a fear of larvae caused your death.” Madara patronizes. 

“I still want to know what she’s saying though. Come on, help out a little.” But before I can convince Madara to help, Masanori-san turns to another child, leaving me alone with my tower puzzle and Madara’s silent condescension. 

We wake up to cockroaches this time. 

.

A boy crouches in front of me, balancing gracefully on the balls of his feet. A metal forehead protector engraved with the Konoha leaf marks him as a ninja. Slowly, a smile slips onto his features, pulling at his cheeks. The rest of his face remains still, pale and frozen like porcelain, betraying the true lack of emotion behind his gesture. 

While Masanori often hired genin teams to assist with the children, cleaning, and recently training the academy level kids, this kid is clearly not a genin. Not with his fluid conservation of movement and impassivity.

Everything about him puts me on edge, from his false smile and pale blue pupiless eyes, to his proffering of a wooden practice kunai. “Okurimonodesu.” It is a gift. Some part of me translates ‘gift’ into ‘bribe’, and I don’t remember being so distrustful in my past life; Madara says it’s a good thing. Ninja are not soldiers. They are weapons, finely honed to the peak of their lethality. They are taught to kill their emotions, sever their attachments, and relinquish their autonomy for their usage by village. However, no matter how a village sharpens its tools, ninja are still subject to human error and human selfishness. Humans don’t like dying. So in this world of child weapons and early deaths, only the skeptical live to see their twenties. 

These thoughts don’t stop me from cautiously accepting the weapon though. Practice kunai are hard to come by – they are hoarded jealously by the academy students and a brilliant toddler like myself should not, in their eyes, need one – within the orphanage and I will need one. 

The boy, no older than 15, widens his smile and places his hand on my head, in a poorly executed mockery of affection. 

“Shit, move!” Madara barks and an accompanying wave of alarm forces me to take a step back, away from the boy, hands raising my wooden weapon uselessly against the boy.

“What?” My own agitation crests to match Madara’s. 

“Yamanaka.” The simple response catches me off guard. Why is there a Yamanaka here? What does he want? 

I redirect my attention back towards the boy. He is still crouched in front of me, though his smile has fallen away. A slight crease between his eyebrows is the only indication of his confusion; a tell I would have missed in my past life had Madara not mentioned yesterday that Masanori made the same expression whenever I did something too clever. (“You should call me Madara-sensei-sama,” he had told me. I promptly burst into laughter.) He hasn’t taught me anything since, but I’m sure he’ll crack eventually. Even if it’s just out of sheer mortification from my general failings as a potential ninja. He’s too much of a perfectionist to let me fail for long. 

“Toshi-san.” Masanori pulls the Yamanaka away from me, one callused hand wrapped firmly in the black cloth of his collar. “Watashi wa anata o kitai shite imasendeshita.” 

“Madara, what is she saying?” Up until now, he has refused to translate a single sentence, hiding behind the excuse that ‘I need to learn the language myself’. But this is clearly something important. I can feel the tension rising by the second. The tingling of killing intent skitters across my skin.

“Figure it out yourself,” came the predictable response and I frown in frustration. 

“Danzo-sama wa tsugi no shiharai o uketai to kangaete imasu,” my eyes widen – a reaction I regret almost instantaneously, for if Masanori caught my reaction in her peripheral vision I would not have the vocabulary to explain myself – at Danzo’s name, and while I can’t parse out the rest of the words, I know this is important. 

“This isn’t the time, just translate!” I pause and add, “please,” to make it sound less like the order we both recognize it as.

“Why should I?” He retorts. 

“Because this is important!” I stifle a growl. Getting caught in an argument with such an insufferable prick won’t help me right now.

“Danzo-san kyō wa gokagetsu mae ni ichiri no kodomo o nusunda. Kare wa betsu no kodomo o hitsuyō to sezu, watashitachi no torihiki no ichibu demo arimasen.” Masanori-san voice is level, but I can detect a sharp edge hidden underneath her calm words. A thinly veiled warning wrapped in civility.

Kodomo: child. Are they talking about me? No, gokagetsu: five months. Danzo did something five months ago to a child. 

“Come on, Madara!” I snap, “I don’t have time for your life lessons right now! Oh, woe is me,” I continue, jabbing at his Uchiha pride. It’s a low blow, but a necessary one. “I’m Uchiha Madara and I know everything but I won’t tell you because—” 

“I can’t,” He interrupts. 

“What? You can’t? Let me guess, ‘Suddenly I can’t speak the language of my people now that you need to know something.” Come on, Madara, what the hell do I need to say to get you to help!

My exacerbation at Madara’s stubborn silence rises when Toshi replies to Masanori-san, “Danzō-sama wa atarashī kodomo ga hitsuyōdesu. Anata ga shikin nashi de jibun jishin o mitsuketai baai o nozoki, anata wa junshu shimasu.” I don’t recognize any of these words. 

“I mean I can’t. I don’t recognize the language.” Madara enunciates each syllable as though I’m an idiot. 

Out of all the answers I was expecting, that is not it. He can’t speak the language. Shit. Shit! That means- we aren’t- we can’t be- Shit. “And you didn’t tell me this sooner! This is important,” I stress, “I thought you were just being a stingy basterd! What if other things are different too? What if we misjudged and we aren’t in the Naruto universe at all? What if we—” 

“First of all, it’s not called the Naruto universe. If anything it should be considered Alpha universe, or Madara universe if you are stubborn about naming it after a person.” I could imagine Madara flicking his hair like some conceited high school girl. 

“No, my universe is Alpha universe. You can be Naruto universe or you can be Shitty Child Murdering Universe, your choice,” I retort viciously, “but oh wait. We don’t even know if it’s the Shitty Child Murdering Universe anymore, because they don’t even speak the same language! We could be anywhere! Maybe we are in the Uranium Radiated Abominable Shinobi Hunt Itty-bitty Toddlers universe, abbreviated to U.R.A.SHIT!”

“Did… you come up with that acronym just then? It’s terrible,” he deadpans. 

“YOU’RE TERRIBLE!”

“If it makes you feel better, we are definitely in the Madara universe. I can still sense chakra, and that boy is certainly a ninja.” 

“No, it does not make me feel better! The Naruto universe is still terrible!” 

My attention snaps back to the real world when the ninja boy, Toshi, turns and observes the play room. His pale blue eyes pause on me before continuing. “Danzo-sama wa sore o nozonde iru.” 

“Īe.” Masanori-san’s response is unrelenting. “Hoka o erabu.” 

“Nazena no?” 

“Danzo to no keiyakude wa, namae no nai minashigo o nusumu koto shika yurusa rete inai to nobete imasu. Kanojo wa.” Masanori-san glares at the boy, “Hoka o erabu.” 

The boy huffs and runs a hand through his ponytail. “Kekkō.” He scans the room again, and points to one of the other children in the room, “Soredesu.” 

“Do you have an idea of what they are saying?” Madara asks.

“I have a guess. Do you remember Danzo? He was one of the Third’s advisors for a long time, ran, or I guess runs, an underground ANBU operation called ROOT. I don’t remember much about him, but I know he ‘recruits’ children from orphanages, and it sounds like this is one of them,” I explain, annoyance still laced in my tone. But I am more focused on not becoming a ROOT member that proving my anger. 

“We should get recruited then,” Madara decides. “He can train us.”

“What? No! He basically brainwashes his subordinates. And then seals them so they are forced to follow his orders. And who said I wanted to be trained?” 

“I said ‘us’, not you. And if we are in Madara—”

I interrupt, “We’ll call it Delta verse until we find out if we are in your original world or not. I’m Alpha verse, you’re Beta verse. This is Delta verse.”

“Fine. If we are in Beta or Delta verse then we need to train if we want to stay alive,” he argues. 

“We’ll have this talk later,” I cut him off again, “But we are not becoming part of ROOT. And that is final. Now shhh,” I hush him. “I want to pay attention.” 

Masanori’s face concerns me. Her lips are pinched and her brows are furrowed angrily, one fist is behind her back, probably gripping the knife she always keeps there. 

Toshi has made his way across the room and is crouching in front of another kid. I don’t know his name. I don’t know any of the kids’ names, which isn’t surprising considering my total avoidance of the orphanages other residents. They are just… so dumb. And they cry all the time. And poo everywhere. Really it’s not a surprise I avoid them.

“I think his name is Aoi,” Madara offers. 

The boy —“Aoi”— smiles at Toshi and immediately accepts the offered practice kunai and mentally invasive hair ruffle that accompanies it. 

“Kare wa yarudarou,” Toshi says definitively before pinching a nerve in Aoi’s neck and picking up the unconscious child. He nods respectfully at Masanori, who glares in return, and makes his leave, vanishing from the room with a puff of smoke. 

Toshi took him. That bastard! 

Shit.

This is definitely one of Danzo’s harvesting grounds. And we were very nearly picked. So why weren’t we. 

Masanori. She stopped him, changed his mind somehow. I don’t know what she said, but she saved us from Danzo— At the cost of Aoi. 

The realization hits me suddenly, and the guilt follows like a blow to my stomach. It squeezes all the air out of my lungs in a whoosh. I lose my balance, falling on my butt and feel the tears well up in my eyes. Masanori sacrificed a person, a living, breathing child. Oh my god, and it was my fault. He should’ve taken me instead. A child is going to grow up a dehumanized weapon because of me. 

“Stop it,” Madara interrupts my train of thought. “Stop whining. It already happened. You didn’t want to join ROOT, so don’t complain. You got what you wanted didn’t you.” 

“But—” 

“There are no buts. It happened. Aoi is gone. He’s never coming back.” 

“How can you say something like that?” I roar, angry at Madara’s blatant dismissal of Aoi. 

“How can you not? You didn’t even know his name. You know nothing about him. He’s irrelevant, and he saved your life.” Madara’s words are harsh, and they bite into me sharper than knives. “People are tools. Use them for your benefit.”

I stare down at the wooden kunai in my hand, turning the weapon over. “This. This is a tool. Not a person. Not a child.” 

“You’re naïve.” I can feel Madara shake his head and tugs on my conscious, pulling me into our mindscape. 

The experience is disorienting and I stumble slightly before he straightens me, hands against my shoulders. I make to yell at him. How dare he dismiss someone’s life so easily. But the moment my eyes meet his I halt.

His face is stony. “Luci. Natsuki. Whatever you want to be called, you need to understand.” His hands tighten against my shoulders and I suppress a flinch. “This world isn’t your world. Our morals and values and expectations are different from yours. If you want to stay alive here, you need to listen to me.” 

I open my mouth to respond but my tongue feels heavy and I am struck by the gravity of the situation. People will die here. I hang my head. “He is just a kid. He’s going to have a terrible life.” 

Madara is silent for a long moment. “You are going to have a terrible life if you can’t adapt. Or worse. You’ll die and then you won’t have a life at all. This is a second chance for us. We can’t squander it.” He sighs and his hands slip from my shoulders.

“I don’t want to be a soldier.”

“I know.”

“We don’t have a choice, do we.” My question comes out flat. I already know the answer.

We stand in silence for a long time, my eyes trained on my bare feet, three inches under the surface of the inky black water; Madara’s eyes are trained on me. Vaguely I notice Masanori pick me up and carry me to my crib. The wooden kunai is still in my hands and my knuckles are white.

“What are we going to do?” I finally ask, looking up at Madara. 

Madara shrugs and drags a hand through his hair. “Up to you. You are the pilot after all, I’m just the along for the ride.” 

I snort, “That doesn’t sound like something you’d say.” 

“What did you expect?”

It’s my turn to shrug. “Expected you to just bully me into doing what you want.” 

“Ha.” He chuckles, “Maybe I would have once upon a time. But bullying you won’t help me. If you aren’t invested in becoming a ninja, in becoming a good ninja, then we will die,” he delivers grimly. 

“I don’t want to die.”

“Me neither.” 

“Is there anywhere in this world that isn’t terrible?” 

“I don’t know. But I’d like there to be.”

“Is that why you helped found Konoha?” I ask.

Madara’s gaze slides to just over my shoulder and I feel a brush of nostalgia. His emotions are becoming easier for me to feel. “Maybe. Maybe not.” It’s an unnecessarily evasive answer. 

“What do you want us to do?” I ask again, adjusting the question to allow him a choice. 

“I get an opinion?” 

I nod. “You are fifty percent of the ‘us’. Only makes sense that you get some of the say.”

“That’s dangerous.” I know this, he is a manipulative bastard after all, and he sighs. “I want to use my second life to make a difference. I made a lot of mistakes last time and this is a chance to make amends.” 

“You think we should become a ninja.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he asks “What do you want us to do?” 

“I don’t know.” I rock back on my heels, frown, and shove my hands into my pockets self-consciously. “Haven’t really thought about it. Still getting over the whole reincarnation thing.”

Madara deadpans, “You’ve had a year.” 

I yelp defensively, “I know! But this isn’t exactly something that happens every day.” 

“What did you want in your old life?”

“I wanted to be a surgeon. To help people.” 

“Why?” 

“Why did I want to be a surgeon?” I clarify. 

“No, why did you want to help people?” 

I cock my head to the side, “I don’t… I guess…” I search for the right words. “The world isn’t…” I struggle to find the right words, and finally settle lamely on “a great place. I guess I just want to make it a little better. In any way I can.” 

Madara cracks a small smile. “That’s rather altruistic of you. No ulterior motives?” 

I blush in embarrassment, “N-no! Not everyone is in it for themselves you know!” 

“My, my, that doesn’t sound very convincing does it?” He places his hand against his chin and scrunches his face in an over exaggerated expression of thought. “Let me guess… Money? No, that doesn’t seem your thing. Maybe, fame?” I feel my blush darken. “Ah, I’m getting warm. Glory?”

“Don’t be stupid!” I cross my arms and turn my back to him before whirling back, “Wait, are you teasing me?” 

“Teasing you? Of course not.” He dismisses, but I catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes, “I’m just trying to understand your motivations. But if its glory you want, hell, even if you still want to just help people, I don’t see how being a ninja wouldn’t allow you to accomplish that.” 

I groan, “We are totally going to die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I know you love fighting just as much as I do.” 

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then how come you’ve picked every fight you can with me? Hmm?”

“I have not! Give me one example.”

Madara stares at me and the amusement becomes more prominent. “You’re starting an argument right now.”

“I am n—” I cut myself off in realization. “Oh. I set the bar too low. Five examples. This one doesn’t count.”

Madara chuckles, “You know, you are quite amusing, Luci.” 

I pout slightly, “Natsuki is fine. I may as well get used to the name right?” 

He hums in agreement.

“I still think we are going to die.” 

“Don’t worry so much. After all, you have the strongest shinobi teaching you,” he gestures to himself and a smirk tugs at his lips. 

“I thought Hashirama was the strongest shinobi,” I counter. “So that basically makes you the left overs.”

“Don’t be rude,” he drawls. “Now get out of here. My patience for your stupidity as reached an end.” He turns me around and pushes me away, “shoo.”

“Wait. I have one more question.” I turn back around. “Am I just a tool too?” 

“What do you think?” 

“I think that you are a lying manipulative bastard,” I respond without hesitation. 

“Good.” At my inquisitive look he continues. “You’re already learning.”

.

I peer into the mirror, examining the face. Dark green eyes set are set into freckled brown skin and curly, gravity defying hair – a shade slightly lighter than her eyes – brushes against high cheekbones and bounces around the girl’s ears. She is short for her apparent age, just barely reaching 5 feet tall, even though she looks to be in her late teens. When I shake my head the curls remain motionless. A failure in my henge. I release the jutsu, and with a shimmer of chakra the illusion slides away. The chubby cheeks of a three-year-old greet me.

“Again.” 

In the reflection of the mirror I can see Masanori-san. She sits on a couch behind me, a book in hand. Occasionally her eyes will flicker from her book to scrutinize my jutsu. 

“You’re forgetting textures. Remember how each piece on a body moves, from the way skin pulls when you smile to how clothes move in certain breezes,” Madara advises. While a lot of a henge is subconscious, things that you are less familiar or more detailed are harder to transform into. So while my henge into Masanori, a woman I have seen every day of my life and am extremely familiar with, is flawless. My transformation into a girl I have only seen in a photograph is much more difficult.

Bringing my hands together I channel my chakra, relishing in the now familiar buzz of energy that rushes through my system. “Henge!” 

The illusion settles into place with a small puff of smoke and I frown at the result. I accidentally switched the green of the eyes with the green of the hair, although the curls move correctly when I shake my head. 

“Again,” Masanori-san intones.

“Don’t get lazy with the details.”

I reapply the justu immediately, impatient and frustrated by my continuous mistakes. While the jutsu itself is simple, I keep making stupid mistakes. Mistakes that keep me standing in front of a mirror and transforming into the same woman over and over again for hours. The mistake of this round is obvious, and the most common I make. 

A henge is the one of the three simplest jutsus and often considered the easiest to learn. As a psudo-genjutsu, it requires a small amount but continuous stream of chakra to create and maintain the illusionary appearance, making it the idea jutsu for a child who only has a limited supply. Overloading it causes the excess chakra to disperse in a puff of smoke, a waste according to Masanori, who has all but beat the habit out of me. The trick, however, isn’t to create or maintain the transformation (and while I occasionally mess up the details,) I more or less had this part down. No, the trick is to properly superimpose the imaginary body over your own as to hide yourself behind the illusion. And this is where I get stuck. 

I glare at the mirror, because the illusion is perfect; colors in all the correct places, proper textures in the hair and fabrics, and shadows fluidly shift as I will the delusion of light on flesh (dense enough chakra can produce a shadow, but most ninja can’t afford to waste chakra for such a frivolous party trick, and thus even the shadows are part of my illusion). But the body is generated an inch to the left, leaving a sliver of my right visible. 

“Again.” My glare flickers from my failed jutsu to Masanori and back again.

“I think the problem is that you lack the control. Genjustu should come pretty easily to you considering your overabundance of Yin chakra, but you are still using too much of it in each transformation,” Madara says.

“I am using the right amount. No chakra puff.” I point out, and repeat the justu to the same effect. Image superimposed on the left. 

“Damn it!” I curse out loud and dodges Masanori’s book, leaving it to thump ineffectually against the glass. 

“Language!” The matron scolds, “For that you can figure the jutsu out on your own, Natsu-gaki.” 

“Alright.” I bow quickly, “Thank you, Masanori-san.” She ignores me and makes to sweep out of the room, barely pausing to grab her book out of the air when I throw it at the back of her head. 

“What a mean lady,” I sigh and take a seat in front of the mirror. My eyes slide closed and I fall into my mindscape. 

“She’s an ex-kunoichi. I don’t know what else you’d expect,” Madara greets me with a nod.

Sometime in the last year our mental reflections had changed, though less prominent in Madara then myself. While I had adopted Narukami Natsuki’s three-year-old body, Madara had de-aged significantly, now looking no older than twelve, with short black spikes (he lamented the loss of his longer hair for nearly a month), dark eyes void of their original bruising, and the remnants of baby fat softening his face.

“I don’t understand why I can’t get it. It should be so easy,” I huff, throwing my arms dramatically in the air and I kick the water. There is more satisfaction in making a splash than in yelling. 

Madara quirks an eyebrow at my violent action and says, “What made you think any of this would be easy?”

I glare at him. “I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I’ve seen ninja summon giant animals and stare demonic chakra entities into submission effortlessly with glowing red eyes. A simple henge shouldn’t be this hard! Even Naruto can do a transformation justu!”

My companion stares at me for a moment and shakes his head, partially in amusement and partially in exasperation. “You stupid brat. If justus were easy to learn everyone would use them. All that crap you read about in your manga is just that. Crap. Ninja work hard to learn jutsu, why else do you think the sharingan is such a valuable resource. It can take years to master even a single justu. Granted this a henge isn’t that hard, but you are still pulling off a near perfect henge at three years old.” Two years ago it would have been strange for Madara to comfort me, but three years together has clearly shifted our relationship. 

“Yeah, yeah,” I dismiss, still disappointed in my abilities. 

The man shrugs. “Naruto couldn’t do a henge anyway.” 

“What?” 

“His reverse harem Justu? That isn’t a henge,” he explains, “and I’m under the impression that he uses that same justu for all of his transformations, not just the… perverted ones.” 

“Wait what? It’s not a henge? Then what is it?” 

“Not a henge.” 

“Yes. You said that. But what is it?”

He runs a hand through his hair, a subconscious movement I started to associate with his being lost in thought, “A solid transformation from what I could see.” 

“A shadow henge?” I ask, connecting the points between Naruto’s signature solid clones and his transformation.

“Something like that” he says, “it resembles a shadow clone in structure at the very least. I think it’s a bit more complicated than that though. He’s using an absurd amount of chakra to manipulate his physical shape.” 

I nod. “So mass stays consistent? Shape changes, density changes to compensate? So while theoretically you could transform any way you want, if you became a kunai for example, you’d still maintain your weight.” 

“Exactly. You’d be a pretty unwieldy kunai,” Madara agrees, “But, you would make a very convincing fake should you ever need to disguise yourself as someone else. Probably doesn’t need very much chakra to maintain either.”

“Sounds physically impossible. Goes against basically every law of biology I know.”

Madara chuckled at my begrudged expression. “Chakra breaks quite a few of your biological laws. Better get used to it.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” but I surrender the point none the less. “Seems more practical than a henge. Why don’t most people use that sort of transformation?”

“Oh, it is. Most people just don’t have the chakra for it. I suppose an infiltration specialist might have a similar jutsu, and I know of at least one family with a similar hidden technique, so it’s not completely unheard of.” He pauses and looks at me curiously, “I wonder who taught it to him though. It’s not exactly the kind of justu a kid can learn on his own.”

“He knew it before graduation. The manga said he invented the Oiroke no Jutsu himself,” I say, and shove my hands in my pocket when Madara continues to stare. “What.”

“Shush Brat, Madara-sensei is learning a jutsu. Do you remember what hand signs he used for it?” He crosses his arms, brow furrowing in though. 

“Just ram I think?” 

“God, he’s hopeless.” Madara sighs and runs a hand through his hair again. 

“He beat you,” I point out, lips turning up into a smile at the embarrassed look that flashed across the Uchiha’s face.

He frowns, “Plot armor.” I laugh. 

“So what do I need to do?” I place my hands into the ram seal, fingers effortlessly sliding into place after days and days of practice. “Just focus my chakra into the shape I want to transform into?” I release the seal. No point channeling chakra in my mindscape. 

“Probably,” he says, “I don’t think he’s clever enough to figure out anything more complicated. Are you going to try?” 

“Of course! Who do you think I am?” Maybe that was a bit cocky, but I’m always up for learning a new jutsu, especially if I’m better at it than a henge.

I open my eyes to the real world again, meeting my reflections gaze squarely in the mirror. Reforming the seal again I pull on my chakra. “Henge!” A puff of smoke (what a waste of chakra) obscures my vision momentarily. 

The result is lackluster to say the least. Though my face changed slightly, now with a more angular bone structure and the slightly spikier strands of hair, my hair is still purple and my eyes are still a dull gunmetal grey. While I look significantly more like an Uchiha, I don’t look like Madara. From my position on the floor I can’t tell if I managed to transform myself to the proper height, but based on my small hands, only slightly larger than what they should be, I can guess that I lowballed it. 

The jutsu releases with another puff of smoke and I cough as the extraneous chakra evaporates into the air. Well, success is only one step after failure, and it’s not like I don’t have the rest of the night to get it right. 

.


	3. The Planck Era (II)

The Planck Era (II)

“Today is the day, today is the day!” I crow from my perch on the counter. “Let’s go, let’s go Masanori-san!” I’m practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Go on,” The strict woman shouts from the other room.

“Take a breath. It isn’t that exciting, Brat.” The nickname rolls off his tongue smoothly, more a term of endearment than insult. Four years together has washed away any genuine ill will between us, and words we used to trade like blows – in those moments when our suspicious banter and stifled vexation spilled over—have since gained a softer edge. 

That isn’t to say we trust each other. I never take the man’s words at face value, and even the hidden meanings and intricacies that I do glean are far from the complete picture. Every jutsu Madara has taught me (a total of 3 right now) is met with disbelief and a healthy dose of reservation (a lesson learned after Masanori-san caught me practicing the hand signs for Tamashī Tensō no Jutsu, a stolen Yamanaka technique used to transfer a soul into a new body, or in my case, switch the soul in control of my body.) Long story short, I trust Madara about as far as I can throw him, which isn’t very far right now, but it growing with time. 

“Yes it is!” I practically squeal, “Today is the day I get to see Konoha for the first time! And…” I pause, considering my next words carefully, “today is the first time you get to see your home in years.” Madara doesn’t respond, but I don’t expect him to. Konoha is a touchy subject at the best of times, and though Madara claims he doesn’t mind talking about it, he conveniently quietens whenever his old home is mentioned. 

I rush to the door, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Come on, Masanori-san! We want to see outside!” I had taken to referring to Madara and myself in tandem when talking to others. If Masanori noticed, she didn’t comment. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” The woman barks, “you have a hand, open the door yourself.” I grin and flick the seals, designed to repel all kids below the age of four. Sucking in a deep breath, I twist the handle, fling the door wide, and making to rush outside. The sight that greets me forces me to stop and I titter on one foot, the other frozen several inches off the floor. 

Children at the orphanage are not allowed to leave until they are four years old: old enough and well trained enough, Masanori says, to get around. I thought she was referring to a kid’s ability to make their way back to the orphanage if they wandered off, or perhaps she was hinting at the less than savory neighborhood our orphanage might be constructed in. Now I can see that I misunderstood, for out of all the possible scenarios that the lack of windows and peculiar toddler proofing seals on the only door, this never even crossed my mind.

“What the hell?” 

What the hell is right. Instead of the dirt streets and sprawling flat buildings illustrated in the manga, I am greeted with a jungle. A giant forest grown from trees easily hundreds of feet tall, more similar in size to the concrete skyscrapers of my first life. Tentatively, I shuffle forward, away from the security of the orphanage.

“Genjustu?” Madara mutters, and I numbly pull on my chakra, causing it to stutter, but the trees don’t waiver. 

I halt several feet away from the platform ledge, even from my vantage point I can tell that the orphanage is constructed at least a hundred feet off the ground, and there is no railing. I am not scared of heights. Nor am I scared of accidentally tripping over the edge, (for even at my age, my balance and reflexes are too honed for such a simple error). And if I am slightly terrified of the inevitable smack of fragile bones and soft flesh against the ground a hundred feet below should I trip, I will never admit to it. Cautiously I pivot and taking a step back to admire the orphanage I’ve called home for the last four years.

It is carved directly into the massive tree, with only a small, bark covered façade with only a single door and window carved out of it, protrudes from the trunk. It looks as though the tree grew around the building or perhaps the tree grew into the shape of the building. This would explain the lack of windows on the orphanage interior, with the exception of the one I could see, which I know looks into Masanori’s office. Above the door hands a red sign with black lettering that reads “The Konoha Shinobi Orphanage”. Directing my gaze upward I can see that there are several more buildings carved into the tree’s trunk, though many of them are hidden from my view by platforms. Thick branches, vines, and the occasional rope bridge – some wide enough to carry several lanes of carriages, other so thin that only a single person could comfortably cross – weave in and out of the giant trees like a spider web, connecting each platform to one another.

It looks like something out of a fantasy novel. Like if you were to take the forest of death and mash it with an elven tree city. Beautiful, but dangerous. Very dangerous. Who knows what kind of traps are concealed within the trees. 

“Village Hidden in the Leaves indeed,” I choke out.

Flopping on my stomach, I carefully wriggle forward until I can peer over the edge of the platform and look down. Below me is much the same as what is constructed above. Houses and buildings are for the most part carved into the giant tree trunks, though some seem to be constructed on the outside of the trees. In some places the wood of the tree seems to grow out of its own trunk, as though the tree’s itself were coaxed into growing houses. Other buildings hung from giant branches, suspended tens of meters off the ground. Some platforms extend the whole way around the trees, supported by massive buttresses, seemingly also grown from the tree. Everything is connected by an interlocking system of rope bridges and branch roads. The ground floor is made of snaking cobblestone and dirt paths lined by houses and building built around the massive tree roots.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” I jolt in surprise and my head whips around, purple hair smacking me gracelessly in the face. Masanori stands next to me, sandaled toes curling over the platform edge.

“Yeah,” I breathe out, returning my gaze to the village, “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah? Is that all you can say? Where the hell is my village?” Madara exclaims, clearly confused and sounding maybe a little wounded. 

Masanori’s voice distracts me before I can answer, “Natsu-chan, I have places to be. Are you coming?”

I shake my head numbly. This was a lot to take in. Too much to take in. The language is different and now the village is too. What else is different? No, what is the same? I need something that is the same. 

“Where—” I cough, finding my throat unexpectedly dry, “—is the Hokage monument?”

“The Hokage monument?” Masanori hauls me to my feet, a hand gripped solidly around my upper arm, betraying her strength as a former ninja, and drags me out into the middle of one of the wide bridges connected to our platform. Surprisingly it doesn’t sway under our feet. She points at a gap in the trees. “Right there.”

“Delta verse,” I croak. 

“Delta verse,” My companion agrees in an equally tight voice. 

For where there should be the seven faces of Hashirama, Tobirama, Hiruzen, Minato, Tsunade, Kakashi, and Naruto, in that order and only that order, Madara and I are instead met with three faces. 

Senju Hashirama.

Uzumaki Mito. 

Sarutobi Hiruzen. 

.

“Oh my god!” I pace, small feet kicking up water with every step, soaking my pants. One hand nervously wrings the edge of my t-shirt and the other tugs on a strand of my hair, using it as a focus point. “What do we do? What do we do?” Panic fills my lungs and my breathing is labored, just on the edge of hyperventilation. Though Madara and I managed to maintain some semblance of self-control until Masanori brought us home, that control had long since slipped away, overwhelmed by panic.

Madara sits in the water, his own shock having rattled him enough to forget to channel chakra to remain afloat, though his face, even younger than the last time I saw him, remains expressionless. I can still feel his concern, churning and twisting into knots.

“Everything we know if wrong,” I continue, “Even our, well, your history! I had hoped, you know, just a little that we were still in Beta verse, and you just forgot how to speak your own freaking language because you are a child again—”

“I am not a chi—”

“You look like you’re six! And truth be told, you act like it too,” I explode. I stomp over to him and grab his face, forcing him to meet my eyes, “How long have you been lying to me? Huh? You knew this wasn’t your world the whole time! The whole fucking time! And you know what?” I release his face and turn on my heel. “I believed you! This whole time! I though, hey, maybe considering he’s fucked without me and we both know it, maybe he’ll fucking tell me the truth!” 

“Guess old habits die hard.” I whirl on Madara and he meets my glare evenly, gunmetal grey to burning red. (There is only one tomoe, another lie Madara didn’t deign to share). 

“Yeah, clearly.” I huff and drop to the floor, taking a seat with my legs stretched out in front of me and leaning all my weight on my hands. “Fuuuck.”

I fall quiet, still glaring daggers at Madara. I wonder if he’ll combust out of my life if I glare hard enough. Amaterasu his ass with my non Sharingan eyes. Ha! That’ll be the day. 

What a joke. 

I slide my hands back until I am lying in the water, arms stretched out to my side like a starfish. 

What a fucking joke. 

“You done yet?” Madara asks. 

“No.” 

“Alright.” 

Time contracts before me. We had a plan, an idea of what we needed to do and how long we had to do it. It’s all gone up in smoke now. Now we don’t have a plan and we don’t have enough time even if we could make one with the limited information we now have.

“We haven’t lost any time. It hasn’t gone anywhere,” Madara says. 

“Don’t read my thoughts.” 

“Don’t read my feelings.”

“I’m not.”

Madara sighs, “Now who’s the liar. Take a breath.” 

I grit my teeth and push the remnants of Madara’s rage away from my own panic, separating our emotions. It’s a bad habit for me to “I don’t need your help.”

“Too bad. You’re getting it anyway. Especially now that everything we thought we knew is wrong.” Yeah, and who’s fault is that, I think viciously. Maybe if your fugly mug told me the truth I could have come up with a solution by now.

The silence drags on, neither one of us willing to let go of our frustration quite yet. 

Most of the night passes before I speak again. “What are we supposed to do now?” 

“Same as what we were doing before. Train. Get stronger.” 

“Fiercer.” 

“Mm. Fiercer,” Madara agrees. 

I have to be the best. If there are only three faces carved into the cliff… War is coming. And if war is coming, then I need to be prepared because I’ll be damned if I get killed because I didn’t try. This is a world where children are no more than pawns on a chessboard. So I need to be good enough that I’m worth something. 

“We are named after a god. Did you know that?” Madara pushes himself to his feet and walks over to me, splashing back down next to me. I splutter in indignation as the water sprays on me. “Narukami. The god of thunder and lightning. The god of storms.” 

“Name you’ve heard of before?” I wonder. 

Madara looks down at me eyes sharp and analytical, but I avoid his gaze, resolutely staring into the abyss above us. “Not for any person I’ve met,” he start’s slowly, “but there is a legend with a boy of that name. A powerful man considered a demigod in the eyes of some. Perhaps it’s how your mother chose it.” 

“A fairy tale,” I deadpan, “yeah, right. Our mother clearly didn’t want us. She has no reason to give us a name like that.”

“I could do without that sarcasm,” comes Madara’s short response, and I wonder when he’ll finally get fed up with my immaturity, bullshit, and general ineptitude and finds a way to end me. At the rate I’m going, probably sooner rather than later. I should probably work on not antagonizing the man.

But right now I’m not in the mood. “Tragic.” 

If he were a lesser ninja he might have reciprocated my hostility, instead he just shakes his head slightly, “Doesn’t matter why you were given that named, but you were. You have a legend to live up to.” 

I groan and press the heels of my hands to my eyes.

A beat passes and Madara continues, “Storms blow into this world on a whim, and it’s just an unfortunate coincidence that humans happen to be in the way. The leave destruction in their wake. Perhaps.” A gentle hand on my cheek pulls my eyes towards his. “Perhaps, one day, we will be much like the unstoppable force of nature we are named after.”

“That’ll be the day,” I snort derisively. Because that day is so far away from where I, we – I correct myself – are right now. 

Madara simply shrugs. “I don’t know much about lightning. Fire as always been more my thing, but I know that in the wake of every big storm, every blast of lightning sparks a fire.”

I shift my head to look at him. “Then teach me how to be a storm. Because if I’m going down, I’m bringing this world down with me.” 

. 

I drill the hand seals over and over again.

Tiger, Ram, Monkey, Boar, Horse, Tiger. 

I drill them until my fingers are bruised from banging into each other. 

Tiger, Ram, Monkey, Boar, Horse, Tiger. 

I drill them until I can run them perfectly with my eyes closed. 

Tiger, Ram, Monkey, Boar, Horse, Tiger. 

I drill them until the sensation of switching between one seal and another is burned into my nerves, burned into my muscles. 

Tiger, Ram, Monkey, Boar, Horse, Tiger.

If Masanori noticed my recent dedication to my training she didn’t comment. And if I noticed her sneaking me scrolls on chakra control and taijutsu kata and ninjutsu techniques from the ninja library then I didn’t comment either. In this way, we fell into a weird symbiosis. 

My new found motivation and work ethic freed more time for Masanori to focus on the less prodigal (although I would hardly call myself a prodigy considering my handicap) members of the orphanage, and in turn Masanori left me to my own devices. 

I appreciate Masanori’s willingness to indulge my independence especially my young age. I know that it’s because she can sense the war brewing (everyone can. The whispers a growing louder. Just last week an entire squad of chunin were slaughtered on the border of Kusa. There are no industrial imports from Iwa after the trade ban. Tensions are climbing and even the smallest spark will send the world into chaos.) Masanori’s job has always been to forge unwanted children into soldiers, weapons for the village, and I am no exception. 

My independence does not exclude me from her heartwarming talks about the greatness of Konoha. 

Patriotism, nationalism. It’s an honor sacrifice your life for Konoha’s greatness. It’s an honor to die for your village. You would be regarded as a hero. 

Madara calls it brainwashing. He is too dignified to spit, hiss, or curse at Masanori’s words. Uchiha do not deign to such behaviors, especially (ex-)clan heads. But he does whisper. He whispers about Konoha’s darkness; her betrayals and underhand tactics. He whispers that no matter how grand Konoha pretends she is, she is still a shinobi village and there is blood on her hands. 

He talks as well. He says that this blood on Konoha’s hands (on our hands soon) is necessary for the betterment of our goal. He reminds me that our dreams are more important than Konoha. He talks of the glory and power and rapture he experiences when he fights, and his euphoria tingles across my skin. Not for the first time do I wonder if I can even tell the difference between his emotions and my emotions anymore. 

This too, is brainwashing. It’s hard to tell if it’s working or not. 

I forge my battle armor as a smile. Grin and bear it. 

Tiger, Ram, Monkey, Boar, Horse, Tiger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter then the last one. 50% caused by writers block. 50% caused by the sudden realization that I have not done enough world building for Delta verse and I gotta figure shit out before writing the next chapter. I just really wanted to post something, other wise I might stagnate and that wouldn't be good.
> 
> I very nearly introduced (the future) Team 7 in this chapter. But naaaaah. I don't believe in coincidences and Natsu isn't looking for them. She's actively avoiding any hint of a person she recognizes, and isn't exactly seeking out friends. She was supposed to be a little ray of sunshine who makes friends and loves people when I designed her. Instead she's sort of super emotionally unstable, very over-trusting, and over confident. At least her strengths and flaws are becoming more clear to you.
> 
> Anyways, feedback from my readers is, as always, really helpful and motivational. You guys really make my day! For this chapter I am encouraging anyone to feel free and drop off Delta verse changes you would be interested in seeing. What do you think is different other then the Hokages? What do you think is the same?
> 
> Over and Out,  
> Plouton


	4. Planck Era (III)

The reality of war children is one that has pervaded Konohagakure’s society since its conception a scant three generations prior. It’s a reality Ueda Masanori understands well. After all, she has been involved with it since her own childhood, when she was turned over to the Kunoichi Orphanage as an infant.

Like many of the girls around her, Masanori was the product of a S.N.A mission: seduction and assassination. While the exact details of the mission are unknown to Masanori, the case files told her that her father was a wealthy Kiri merchant, though his name has long since faded into obscurity. Upon Masanori’s mothers return home, she was already several months pregnant. She decided to offer her child to her village as a future kunoichi and placed her in the orphanage.

The system is devised in such a way to keep shinobi children on the career path started by their parents while simultaneously affording them the training usually guaranteed to shinobi born children.

Narukami Natsuki is an S.N.A child, Masanori notes as she fills out the Academy entrance application, leaving blank spaces where one would normally fill out parental information. Even the mother’s information is redacted from Masanori’s document’s on the child.

Narukami Natsuki is odd. Well. Perhaps, Masanori amends, odd is the wrong word.  
Natsuki’s spontaneous delivery to the orphanage lacking the usual precursory interview is odd. Her almost supernatural intelligence and maturity is suspicious. And her unnaturally large chakra reserves that hum in an uncomfortable harmonization of two otherwise unique chakra signatures is enough for Masanori to demand a closer inspection of the child.  

Masanori’s paranoia has not waned since her resignation from the active kunoichi roster, and one does not survive three decades as a ninja by ignoring their gut instincts. Originally Masanori thought that a sleeper agent was slipped into her ranks, but Natsuki doesn’t display any of the predicted behaviors often expressed by an agent.

Natsuki doesn’t have the navigational abilities to map out the village in any capacity that could assist infiltrators, and though she has physically acquired the skill to traverse most of the vertically structured city, any truly secret location will remain out of her reach until she learns to either climb walls with some regularity, or learns to shunshin to her desired destination.

Though, if she does somehow have the ability to map the village, it doesn’t matter because without growing up in Konoha one couldn’t infiltrate the city safely. Between the three-dimensional element provided by the Senju’s trees, the convoluted web of ropes, bridges, and branches that connected the Ground, Root, and Bridge levels together, and the total absence of any obvious paths into the Sky level made it near impossible to navigate the village without a guide. And that didn’t even touch on the hidden traps and seals an infiltrator would have to avoid. Konoha is constructed as a veritable death trap for non-citizens.

Masanori doubts Natsuki herself could even transverse Konoha, let alone map it while finding and marking all the security and defensive seals. Most of the time she couldn’t even find an empty training field on Ground level.

However, Masanori already determined Natsuki’s innocence even before she was given permission to wander the village. Natsuki’s distrust of Danzo’s ROOT operatives was the deciding factor. For anyone who wanted access to valuable information would have jumped at the opportunity to join ROOT. Masanori decided that Natsuki’s total rejection of Yamanaka Toshi was enough to demonstrate she isn’t a sleeper.

Which means, technically, Natsuki qualifies to join a ninja academy. Preferably The Konoha Ninja Academy. A lesser academy would really be unsuitable for the child considering her work ethic and intelligence. She is shaping up to be quite a little genius.

“Masanori-san?” Natsuki jogs into the room, dirty sandals leaving muddy prints behind her, and Masanori barely suppresses a sigh of annoyance. She hates cleaning.  

The child’s dark purple hair curls around her cheeks and brushes against her jaw in the same wild spikes often associated with the Uchiha clan, and coupled with her pale skin and dark eyes, the resemblance is uncanny.

The sweltering early August heat has seen the girl exchange the usual unisex uniform worn by all the orphanage children with a thin tank top tied at the back to keep the length from tripping her. It is probably taken from a lost and found box. Her shorts remain those provided by the orphanage, but are sheared shorter as to not inhibit any flexibility in her legs. Duct taped sandals complete her look, and Masanori is reminded to purchase her a pair of proper ninja sandals following her enrollment in the Ninja Academy.

“Yes, Natsu-chan?” Masanori asks.

“We’re going out to train,” she says, “We left Himiko and Daiki upstairs to watch Isao and play with kunai. I stabbed Daiki when I was demo-ing a counter for Himiko. So he’s crying.”

“You what?”

“It’s for training. He shoulda known to dodge,” Natsuki explains again before practically bouncing over to the door, disappearing outside and launching herself off the platform and throwing a: “We’re off!” over her shoulder.

Occasionally a moment like this occurs, when Masanori is reminded that despite Natsuki’s almost prodigal nature, she is still clearly lacking in a few places. Usual her inabilities fall within the social realm. She doesn’t play or talk with the other kids, and when she does it often results in tears from the other party. Daichi, in this case.

Masanori pushes herself away from the table to go tend to the probably bleeding child in the back room. She makes her way to the door before turning back to the table. She picks up the pen and signs her name, completing the form.

_I, Ueda Masanori, hereby nominate Narukami Natsuki for kunoichi training at The Konoha Ninja Academy._

While Masanori is fairly confident Natsuki could match all but the oldest academy students in combat related areas, her social abilities are nearly nonexistent. Masanori blamed these faults on the girl’s lack of friends. Instead she mutters to herself and disappear for hours to train on her own.

The academy will be good for her. It will finally force her to make some friends beyond her imaginary one.

[ _Entropy_ ]

Delta verse is different. Very different. And neither Madara nor I am sure how much these differences could potentially alter the timeline. Which is… dangerous. Without our foreknowledge, what can we do?

The village itself is vastly changed from Madara’s memories. While Konoha is geologically located in the same place, and the general lay out seems vaguely familiar, the construction of the Village Hidden in the Leafs actually _hidden in the leaves_ creates a very different village that supports a very different community then the one we recall.

Madara doesn't actually seem too worried. He's choked it up to simply: so what if it's different, I'm still striving for peace. And I'll do whatever I need to make my dream a reality.

Let it be noted that he is not the reliable personality, and if his dumb ass gets us killed I will haunt him into the next life. This world is too volatile and the people who inhabit this world are dangerous.

“ _Don’t worry so much, Natsu-gaki, I’m a bigger threat to anyone alive than they are to me._ ” He forgets my involvement in this equation. But I suppose my survival as a civilian isn't guaranteed any more then my survival as a kunoichi, though I raised my odds as surviving as a kunoichi a little because of Madara.

He’s shown me some of his combat related memories.

He is _terrifying_.

I am not terrifying, I acknowledge as I pick myself up off the muddy ground, after failing yet another taijutsu combo.

The ground is muddy and unstable from this morning’s downpour and is making my training even more difficult than usual. Despite the strong stances that permeate the Uchiha style, the abrupt twists and feints and crisp acrobatics feel jerky and stiff when I attempt them. Madara is becoming more and more convinced that his old taijutsu style won’t be suitable for our body type. Unfortunately, he doesn't have another cohesive style he to teach, so we have to make due.

As a result, I tend to prioritize our ninjutsu. Not to brag or anything, but I am good at ninjutsu. Like crazy good. Especially for someone of my physical age. I mean, I am ‘blowing proper portioned fireballs and pulling mud walls the ground’ kind of good. I could hold a henge for hours and we've almost reverse engineered Naruto’s transformation enough for practical combat application.

Madara mostly attributes this to our chakra reserves. According to him, he was reincarnated with all of his chakra (which raises some questions about the mechanics used to send Madara back in time and across dimensions), so instead of suffering from chakra exhaustion when I exhausted my own (fairly large, if I do say so myself) reserves I could, theoretically, start pulling from his.

The biggest issue, however, is my lack of chakra control. Which is probably one of the reasons harder justus seemed to come easier. If a technique requires more chakra from the outset, then it doesn’t really matter if I overshoot the mark by a bit. It doesn't require the same adjustments as tree climbing or sticking a leaf to our body, two things which we couldn't do to save our lives.

All in all, I thought our training was going pretty well considering we wouldn’t even be taking the Academy entrance exam for another week. Madara thought we were shit. But I suppose that is expected considering he was one of the most powerful ninja ever.

I overbalance in a high kick and my feet slide out from under me again, sending me back into the mud. Irritated, I wipe the mud from my cheeks.

“ _You are terrible at this_ ,” comes the supportive response from Madara. “ _Have you tried being less terrible?_ ”

“Shut up.”

“ _No, no. I’m serious. Be less terrible. It’s really not that hard_.” Madara says, and I grind my teeth. “ _Or. Hey. I don’t know. Maybe. If you stopped thinking so much about ninjutsu when you are supposed to be practicing taijutsu, you won’t keep making the same mistake_ ,” he continues, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

Sometimes I just want to punch his stupid face.

“ _If you punch me, I will punch back. I will hurt you more than you hurt me,_ ” he threatens, but I can feel his amusement, so I brush it off.

“I‘m stopping for the day. Before I break an ankle in the mud,” I say, picking myself out ooze and wiping my filthy hands on my equally filthy (though thankfully already brown) shorts and ignore Madara's protests as I wander away from the training ground. I add: "going to Mechi's for food," to shut the him up.

The streets and bridges are packed; I note as I tromp down the street. Ground level is always full of visiting merchants and vendors, though Root level is more densely packed with stores and houses. Civilian traffic fills the wooden paths and bridges of Root level.

I weave my way through the crowd and duck under the canvas flaps and into our favorite restaurant and most frequented lunch spot, The Eddy. Even though Madara and I don’t have a lot of extra money to splurge on buying lunch, the owner, Mechi, is a friend of Masanori’s, and gives us a discount whenever we come in after training. Especially when I look like I lost a fight with the dirt. 

I amuse her, I'm sure. 

The restaurant is carved into a tree with three large archways, covered partially by red canvas flaps decorated with artfully painted whirlpools. Wooden tables, also seemingly cared from the Senju tree line the edge of the room and a sushi bar dominates the center of the room, surrounded by stools, all slightly taller than myself.

A few people are already sitting for lunch, mostly civilians, but a small contingent of genin have taken over a few tables in the back corner and a pair of, I assume, jounin are seated at the bar. One of them is slouched awkwardly on the stool and glowering at her friend. I realize she is paralyzed on her left side. Her friend is laughing loudly and twirling a senbon cheekily between her fingers and feeding her temporarily paralyzed partner slices of sashimi.

I clamber gracelessly onto one of the bar stools, a few seats away from the jounin and meet the Mechi’s grinning face.

“If it isn’t my favorite little fire breather,” She chortles, “not here to set my fine establishment on fire again are you?”

I glare at the grinning chef, ignoring Madara’s own chuckle at my expense. “It was one time!”

“One time too many, I think you mean,” Mechi says, “So what’ll it be today?”

“Mochi please!”

“No. Eat something healthy!” Madara reprimands.

Mechi laughs, “After you actually have something to eat. With all those calories you’re burning, you need to remember to eat a balanced diet, and mochi doesn’t cut it.”

“Uuuugh,” I groan, “fine. We’ll have th—”

“Too late!” Mechi slides a plate of nigiri onto the counter in front of me and shoves a pair of chopsticks into my hand. “Order faster next time, before I order for you.” And then she whisks herself to the other side of the sushi bar to serve another customer, red ponytail bouncing behind her. She must have started preparing this dish the moment she saw me.

Mechi isn’t a pretty woman. Her face is scared; haunting gouges rip from her jaw line through her lips and across her cheek preventing her mouth from completely closing over her teeth. Her left ear is missing and presumably hacked off with the same blade that carved deep ruts into her cheeks. Her hair mostly covers the hole where her ear used to be, and the vibrant red strands detract attention from the scars. Her left leg, is also missing, replaced below the knee with a prosthetic decorated in the same swirls as the restaurant entry flaps.

Her career as a kunoichi clearly ended poorly.

Despite her appearance, her food has won over a fairly loyal following of customers, both ninja and civilian alike, myself included. I shovel the sushi into my mouth barely pausing to take a breath between each piece.

“ _Slow down. Your table manners are unseemly_.”

“ _Ever the critic, aren’t you_ ,” but I do slow down, savoring the toro as it practically melts on my tongue. “ _Where do you think she gets her fish from?_ ”

“ _Why would I know_?” Madara asks as he slides beneath my skin where he can taste the fish, “ _Have the hamachi next_.”

I comply, shoving the nigari into my mouth. “ _Maybe, if it’s cheap we can convince Masanori to buy some_.”

“ _It won’t be cheap, but ask anyway. But bribe Masanori for inarizushi too_.” Madara recedes from his place under my skin with a grunt of disgust as I bite into the ikura. I chew thoughtfully and finish the roe nigiri before allowing Madara to slide back into place.

“Hey, Mechi?” I call when the chef hands of a platter of rolls to a waitress.

She throws a pair of chopsticks at me – “It’s ‘Mechi-sama’ to you, fire child!” – and I sway out of the way easily. If Mechi really wanted to hit me with the sticks she would have.

I interrupt her before she can really get started in her rant. “Where do you get your fish from?”

The chef pauses and blinks at me with an expression of incredulity. “Where do you think?” The ‘idiot’ is implied.

The ocean, I think. But that is clearly the wrong answer.

“ _Wave?_ ” Comes Madara’s helpful suggestion which I repeat to a dumbfounded Mechi.

“Why would I get my fish from Wave? No, no,” she tuts and shakes her head disappointedly. “It’s so easy to forget you haven’t learned any geography since you aren’t in the academy yet, little fire breather. But I would have thought you knew the origins of one of the six noble clans of Konoha.”

“ _I thought there were only four_?” I ask Madara, staring at Mechi in confusion. 

“ _Five, if you include the Senju. But they were removed once they only had one member left_ ,” Madara corrects me.

“We only knew about four…” I offer by way of explanation when Mechi doesn't start speaking right away.

“Only knew fou—Kid, ether Masa-chan has been slacking in her history lessons, or you haven’t been paying attention. Alright, sit down and get comfy, I’m going to teach you a thing.” Mechi whirls suddenly and shouts, “Akihiko,” at one of the waiters, “You man the bar!”

The gangly teen stutters out a response but Mechi has already brushed him of and settled herself against the counter in front of me. “Ok. So you know of five of the six major clans. I'm guessing Senju,” I nod, “of course. They get a lot of attention because of their fancy mokuton. Small clan but a good one for sure.”

“And they founded Konoha with the Uchiha. So we also know them.”

“Mm. Uchiha make two. Akimichi you definitely know because I’ve seen you scoffing down Akimichi Chomei’s pork buns before. Although, you don’t recognize my clan so maybe you have more smoke up there then I thought.” She reaches over to knock her knuckles against my skull.

I swipe at her hand in irritation but she pulls it away before I can make contact. “We know about the Akimichi clan. A few weeks ago one of their chunin almost stepped on us.” Madara was very amused by my sloppy attempt to dodge out from under the gigantic teenager. Hopefully he would have been less amused if I’d actually been squashed, but he’s a sadist so it’s hard to say.

“Alright then. There is the Huuga. White eyes. In a competition with the Uchiha to see who can be bigger pricks.” Mechi continues without batting an eyelash at my almost death at the hands (or feet, I suppose) of the Akimichi shinobi.

“Yeah, they’re—”

“Irrelevant,” Mechi bulldozes over me. “Aburame would be next. Pretty cool clan if you can get past the bugs. Definitely produce some of the best ninja this village has seen. Never underestimate one.”

She imparts this particular piece of wisdom solemnly. I have no doubts that she knows what she is talking about, and I almost ask for details before Madara shushes me with a “ _Trust me. You really don’t want to know considering you only recently got comfortable with centipedes in your bed._ ”

“ _They bite!_ ” I complain and shove a piece of unagi into my mouth to disguise my grimace from Mechi's observant gaze.

“That’s five. Six is the Uzumaki clan.” I choke, coughing into my hand and spitting small pieces of rice back onto my plate. Unconcerned, Mechi reaches over the bar to pat my back as I hack up the eel.

“Uzumaki clan?”

“ _They were practically extinct in my multi-verse_ ,” Madara hums thoughtfully. “ _They had their own independent ninja village but it was destroyed_.”

My coughing ceases under Mechi’s heavy hand. “Learn to breath between bites and you won’t choke.”

I glare at her, but the tears that unwillingly welled up in my eyes and my flushed cheeks ruin my chances at intimidation. Mechi snickers, ruffling my hair—it’s already messy, damn it! Leave it alone! – and withdraws behind the counter before I can stab her offending hand with my utensils.

“As I was saying before you started dying in the most embarrassing way a future ninja can die, my clan,” she pointed to a red spiral on her prosthetic, “the Uzumaki clan became the sixth noble clan of Konoha after Nindaime-sama rose to power. Which really makes no sense considering the Uzumaki were involved in the creation of Konoha right from the start.”

A team crowd of shinobi, chunin I would guess based on the sandpaper like quality of their chakra. Unrefined and grating in comparison to the silky texture I feel from the jounin pair at the other end of the bar. One, a young man with delicately braided red hair salutes short to Mechi, who nods back. Another Uzumaki.

“We knew that,” I say.

“No you didn’t,” Mechi retorts without missing a beat, returning her attention to me.

“We knew Nindaime-sama was married to Soudai-sama,” my tongue twists awkwardly around the formal honorifics and Madara makes a gaging sounds to my amusement. Honorifics really aren’t something I’m used to using.

“Wow. Good job. Gold star,” the woman shoots a thumbs up at me, “you know so much.”

I roll my eyes at her sarcasm, “rude.”

“I’m allowed to be. I’m an adult. Now. Scram. I have actual paying customers to entertain. No more cultural lessons for fire breathers.” She shoos me.

“You still haven’t told me where you get your fish from.” Madara’s internal sigh parallels Mechi’s.

“ _Uzushiogakure, brat. She gets it from her homeland._ ”

“Go pester someone else about my clan. Make your way down to the compound or something. Now unless you want to spend money, scat.” She jerks towards me and I flinch back in surprise, pinwheeling my arms and kicking my legs out to catch the counter lip. Mechi pushed me the rest of the way off my stool with a firm hand and I find myself sprawled gracelessly on the floor.

The still semi-paralyzed jounin at the other end of the bar snickered at me over her friend’s shoulder.

“Alright, alright,” I grumble, clambering to my feet. “I’m going!” I make it half way to the door before realizing that I have no idea where the Uzumaki compound is. Do they haven have a cohesive compound? Or is it more like the Uchiha compound that is liberally spread between multiple trees and at least three of the four primary levels? 

I turn back to ask but Mechi beats me to it. “South of the SMH. Watch for seals!”

I nod and throw a wave over my shoulder, running out the door towards Konoha’s primary ninja hospital. Or at least. I think I’m headed towards Konoha’s primary ninja hospital. This city really is very difficult to navigate.

[ _Entropy_ ]

The Uzumaki clan did turn out to have a proper compound. It’s a singular tree, from Ground to Sky level, directly south of the Senju Memorial Hospital.

“ _How the fuck did we miss this?_ ” I imagine Madara’s jaw dropping.

“Dunno.” I shrug a shoulder and cock my head to the side, staring up at the massive tree from my place on Ground level. The crowd continues to flow past me barely even acknowledging the kaleidoscope of sound and colors that pour off the compound. “It’s so red.”

“ _Yes it is_.”

“And big.”

“ _How many Uzumaki are there?_ ” Madara asks, to which my only response is another helpless shrug. “ _They must have moved the whole clan out of Uzu after Mito became the Nindaime._ ”

I shake my head at that, ignoring the odd look I get from a passing pedestrian. “Not possible. The whole Uzumaki clan was large enough to be their own fully functional shinobi village,” I pause, think for a moment, and finally decide: “They’d need at least three trees then.”

“ _Perhaps_ ,” Madara considers.

The Uzumaki compound is wrapped around the trunk of the great tree, spiraling higher and higher until large branches hide the Sky level from view. Red banners proudly display the Uzumaki swirl and fairy lights are twisted around stray branches and rope bridges. People are climbing from floor to floor, swinging on vines, and I can even see a few people rappelling down walls. An explosion sounds from somewhere near the top, and ah, that explains the scent of smoke that clings to the red and green compound.

It’s so full of life.

Madara has it right. How the hell did we miss _this_.

I take a step forward and peer through the crowd. “We should try get in. It looks like there are stores in the roots. If we walk over there then we can see if we can climb in.”

“ _Wait, wait_!” Madara’s shout halts me. “ _Seals! Can’t you feel them?_ ” He pauses and waits for my acknowledgement.

“Feel them? What. With chakra?” I squint up at the tree again, searching for the inked symbols.

“ _Yes, idiot_.”

“’Kay.” I press my hands together into the ram sign and focus. A minute passes before I drop my hands. “Nope. I can’t feel them.”

“Oh?" An oily voice right over my shoulder asks. A yelp slips through my lips and I’m whirling around, fist swinging before I can stop myself. The man catches me easily, long fingers wrap around my small wrist and an amused smirk pulls at thin lips and his yellow eyes glitter. "Can’t feel what?”

I flinch back more on instinct than anything else, because meeting Orochimaru, much like everything else that’s happened to us in this life, was never part of the plan.


	5. Planck Era (IV)

She was a small thing. Dark hair, pale skin, fragile bones, and dirty clothes.

In any other moment, he would have looked right over her. His eyes skim past the unremarkable child with hardly a second though.

Then she placed her hands together in a near perfect ram sign and her chakra  _roared._

Chakra sensing, while a common skill for shinobi, wasn't something that many people honed enough to be considered a chakra sensor. This was partially because chakra sensing is a personal skill, one that can't easily be explained between individuals with different sensing tendencies. Every sensor distinguished chakra differently. Inuzuka had a tendency to scent, and colors were common amongst the inexperienced.

Personally, Orochimaru hears chakra, feels the vibrations in the air. He hears it roll through their coils and ricochets off their surroundings. It took a significant amount of chakra for it to register as a threat to him when he wasn't purposefully listening.

When this tiny, unassuming child's chakra roared like an eldritch tailed monster of old, he nearly killed her. A kunai was in his and his chakra pulled him through space behind the child before he blinked. His brain, quick as a viper, caught up milliseconds later and he aborted the assassination attempt millimeters before steel bit into her flesh.

 _Stand down,_ his fingers flicked through the standard signs, calming the other ninja in the vicinity. Silly child should have known such an aggressive flare of chakra would receive a violent reaction from surprised ninja.

Her chakra subsided to a dull growl, "Nope, can't feel them," she said.

Orochimaru decided she was the most interesting thing that happened to him all week, and there was no way he was letting this opportunity slip through his fingers.

* * *

There is an old shinobi superstition Masanori once told me when I first decided to become a ninja.

She was bent over a cutting board, dicing vegetables with the brutal efficiency gained by years and years of dicing her enemies. I was leaning against the counter next to her, sneaking slices of mushroom from under the flashing knife.

I nonchalantly mentioned my decision to pursue the career laid before me by my association with the orphanage. I said I was going to be legendary.

She nodded, "There are only three types of shinobi in the word. Survivors, casualties, and legends."

This made sense to me. Despite my fairly civilian childhood so far, bodies and blood were bought as easily as food in this village. I was no stranger to casualties. (The first was a 12-year-old genin, Shin. No last name. An Iwa chunin had ripped his heart clear out. He was not the last casualty from this orphanage.) It's frighteningly easy to forget that the foundation of this world is built on bones and blood.

The blue hair woman glanced at me and breathes a sigh before delicately placing her knife down and lowering herself to her knees in front of me. Callused hands grip my shoulders. "Natsuki, it's alright to simply survive." her grip tightens, "Something is coming and I have no doubt you will meet legends and alike monsters. When you do, know this: only two people meet the eyes of monsters. Legends and idiots. Idiots don't come back." Her eyes searched for mine. "Don't be an idiot."

" _Be a monster_ ," Madara said.

"I'll survive," I resolved. I wished I wouldn't meet a monster for a very long time.

Unfortunately, this universe sucks  _ass._

And I've found myself throwing a punch at Orochi- _fucking_ -maru's face, and Masanori's lesson fell out of my head and onto the floor.  _Don't be an idiot._

"Can't feel what?" The man asks again when then only answer I can muster is a 'um'. He leers over me silky black hair slipping over his shoulders and lips pulling wider as his amusement grows.  _Only legends and idiots._

" _Say something"_ Madara hisses feeling my agitation.

I don't break my gaze.  _"_ Seals." I say, forcing the word through my teeth, and try pulling my arm out of the sannin's grip. His hand tightens its hold in response until it's almost painful. "The Uzumaki. They have security seals." Madara rushes under my skin, soothing my rising panic. If this were a conversation between Orochimaru and Madara, Madara wouldn't be afraid at all.

"And you are trying to feel them?" The man prods.

"See them." The words are coming easier now with Madara at my back. "Technically." The sannin's gold eyes are surprisingly beautiful, in an incredibly unnerving way. Even an untrained civilian would recognize the chakra mutation identifying his status as a member of a shinobi clan. Orochimaru remains quiet and I realize he wants me to elaborate.

"If I push my chakra to my eyes then I thought I'd be able to see the chakra embedded in the seals. I figured it's like electromagnetic energy right? It produces wavelengths and my chakra could pick up on those wavelengths." That was the gist of my poorly considered theory of chakra in any case. I figured it has to follow at least some laws of physics.

Orochimaru continues to stare before chuckling and releasing my wrist. "That is a very amusing theory, child. How'd you come to think that?"

My brows furrow. Is he testing me or something? "Well. Ninja can expel chakra with enough force that it can be felt. Which means the energy is moving through the air and I figured it's like any other energy like light, or sound. It's a wave. Or a particle wave. Or something similar."

"And how do you know all of that, child? You are not attending any of the civilian schools."

" _He's interrogating us."_ Madara says.

" _I know. But I'd rather not make an enemy out of him."_

"I like to read." That's not quite the truth. I did like to read in my old life, but I was also a student and my degree required I spend quite a bit of my time studying physics. I learned this from hours hunched over a textbook cramming for exams.

"You are training to be a ninja." He continues. He's not even asking anymore. Simply observing.

I'm suddenly hyperaware of the dirt and blood under our nails, of the grass burns and cuts on our hands from failing to handle a kunai correctly, of the thrumming in our chakra as Madara's wrestles mine into a false calm.

I nod.

He laughs again and uncoils himself to standing at his full height.  _Don't be an idiot._

"You're a bright child, so I will tell you this. There are only two clans within Konoha who can see chakra the way you described, but even they can't see seals that aren't there." He considers me for another second before stepping around me and continues down the road.

I heave a sigh of relief when he disappears into the crowd and Madara recedes.

" _That coulda been worse."_

" _Could have been better, too"_  Madara says, " _At the very least, you weren't an idiot."_

* * *

Orochimaru's lips quirk. What an interesting child. She would certainly be entering an academy soon, in either this intake period or the next he would estimate. Perhaps he would even place a recommendation in for her if the administration was on the fence about her placement into the Konoha Shinobi Academy as opposed to a lesser academy. The administration is known to make poor decisions regarding the placement of orphans into the academy, after all.

And so what if he was being a little biased. Any child with chakra as unique as that was bound to attract attention. If he got to her first, well, who could blame him. Even without proper training her power was intoxicating.

For now, though, he'd leave her be.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Just a quick update to let everyone know that I am NOT abandoning this story. I'm currently in the middle of Stuvac and will be studying for my finals for the next month. Hopefully after that I will be abel to churn out a few more chapters before coming back to uni and having my time gobbled up by my way too overloaded schedule.

As always, thank you all for your support and continued interest in my writing. Your reviews are amazing to read and make my day.

This chapter was actually really interesting for me to write because there is so much foreshadowing and character analysis involved that I think I did a pretty good job of including. If you missed it, don't worry, that's the point. You aren't supposed to realize until later so that's fine.

Also, this is the last part of the Planck Era! Yay, I get to expand the universe now! (Haha, get it?) The next chapter will be the begin the Grand Unification Era.

Thanks again and please review! I love to hear your comments and thoughts!

Over and out,  
Plouton

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and kudos are my lifeblood! They will motivate me!


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